


dirty talk and a well-lubed starship

by Aewin



Category: Homestuck
Genre: ...kinda sorta, AU, Also I am sad to inform you that the parasites are not of a sexual nature, Body Horror, Bulges and Nooks, Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Cybersex, Dirty Talk, Eggpreg, Exhibitionism, Frottage, Helmsman Kink, Helmstrolls, I know this will be traumatizing to some of you, M/M, My deepest apologies that there was not an archive warning for this level of disappointment, Parasites, Sexual Fantasy, Vehicular Sex, Voyeurism, and a brief, because seriously, dirk will entertain anything once, initial dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 14:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7365928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aewin/pseuds/Aewin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TT: Let’s get this show on the road.<br/>TA: a/2/l?<br/>TT: 23, male, rubbing my dick on you. You?<br/>TA: you wouldn’t beliieve me, gender ii2 iirrelevant, haviing diick rubbed on.<br/>TT: Now that the preliminaries are out of the way, woo me.<br/>TA: ii put on my robe and wiizard hat.<br/>TT: Roll for sex appeal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dirty talk and a well-lubed starship

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cephalopod](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cephalopod/gifts).



> These guys are a beautiful disaster and I love them. I hope you love them too!
> 
> (I thought about making this trans Dirk, but it's a risk with gifts and I opted for the safer route. If there's enough interest from readers, I can remix it as a second chapter. Not a ton would change, but people would have the option in the future if they wanted it, since I know trans Striders are a pretty common headcanon.)

* * *

TT: Hey. What’s your name?

You wait exactly 30 seconds before prodding again. It’s a reasonable amount of time. Any longer than that and he’s just fucking with you.

TT: Helm. Beuller? Beuller?  
TT: You are literally the only person reading these words. If you are reading this, this message is addressed specifically to you.

30 more seconds. Nothing.

Fine. You don’t really need to know his name to start yanking parasites out of his ass. They probably crawled up there because he’s a gigantic asshole to begin with, if your 60 seconds of (non-)interaction are any indication.

And the problem is parasitic in origin, no question. The biowires should be fuchsia since the Condesce is tyrian, but they’re a pale, fading pinkish color. You snap gloves on as you wade into the helmsman’s pit, adding the finishing touches to your skintight gear. You grab his jaw, and he seizes up, but there’s still no response, verbally or through the glasses. He’s alive, but so emaciated that you’d need to invent an adjective to describe the severity. You'll need to add some fat to his diet.

The system said he’s thousands of years old, but you’d been skeptical. A clerical error somewhere down the line, probably. Seeing him now, you’re not so sure.

Still, there don’t seem to be visible parasites on his exterior, and none when you yank the tube out of his ass to scrape out a sample. That could be good, or bad. You part the biowires next, and -

Yeah. A handful of worms half-buried in a wire, another wire with holes that look like they’ve been made recently. The trolls probably don’t even use the word, but you have a good internal laugh at the irony of the helmscolumn being infested with helminths. Fucking beautiful.

You signal to the trolls at the door that you’re done, and climb out of the pit and into the sterilizing chamber. You’re willing to bet that whoever brought this shit in didn’t follow proper procedures, and a surge of anger rises before you suppress it. Having lived a full 23 years, you should be used to incompetence by now.

After re-dressing, you step out of the chamber. One of the trolls speaks.

“I hope for your sake that you’ve - ”

“No, I hope for _your_ sake that you weren’t the one that brought this in. Take me to the Condesce.”

One of them opens their mouth, presumably to protest, but the other shakes their head and slaps you in handcuffs before prodding you along.

You insist on a private meeting, and every goddamn troll in the place argues with you until you’ve shut enough of them down to get to the throne room. The ones here aren’t as easily swayed, and it takes ten minutes of waving the ♓-emblazoned cuffs at them before the Baroness herself bursts out of the room and snaps at them. You hate her, but it's nice being a VIP.

They’re escorted out incredibly abruptly by the other trolls in the area. Judging by the pallor of the trolls that leave the throne room, you’re not sure you’ll see those particular guards again.

Someone kicks you onto your knees in front of the Empress before slamming the doors on their way out. You stand back up. She invited you to be here (insofar as she 'invites' anybody to do anything), and you're determined to prove - for your own sake, if nobody else's - that you're no passive slave. Especially not to her. You'll kill her someday, but for now it's down to intel. And there's no better place to be for that other than on her very ship.

She splays across her throne and crosses her arms, doing the whole stereotypical disinterested buffs-nails-and-pretends-to-be-interested-in-them villain thing. She's got pretty bitchin' nails though, you'll give her that. Anyways.

“Betta get on it, then.”

You tick orders off on your fingers. “Separate the wires with as much space as you can solidly get between them - I’d suggest some sort of rigging with metal spreaders - and flood the chamber three times. The water gets dumped directly into space. All trolls involved go in full biohazard suits, to be incinerated after use.” You hope she doesn’t interpret that as saying the trolls should be incinerated, but too late to correct yourself. You know what you’re doing here.

“Everyone on the ship takes an antiparasitic, and each wire gets its own injection. Vary them up so you don’t build up too much resistance. Once I’ve confirmed the worms in the wires are gone, we culture and graft some of your cells onto the wires to keep them robust.”

She doesn't need to know how closely you'll be scrutinizing those things during the process.

She laughs, and your skin crawls just hearing that cackle. She’s ancient, and though she seems young on the surface, subtle signs of her age sometimes come through. There are small _differences_ about her - the way she stalks more than walks, the deep creases where jewelry has pressed against her skin for eons, the slimmer figure that’s lacking extra layers of ocean-insulating fat.

“Those shore are a lotta instructions.”

“They’re what’s needed.”

“Be reel expensive.”

You look her in the eye. “I just so happen to have some extra-blingy shackles you can sell to finance the operation.”

She grins, showing off her ungodly teeth.

“I’m finna keep you around, buoy.”

* * *

There’s not much to do as the Empress’s new toy. You’re out of shackles, free to roam and plot, and as long as you prod intermittently at the sorry sack of meat hanging in the wires, you’re left alone. You churn out some shitty comics for the smattering of humans hanging around in the universe, others that the empire was smart (or stupid) enough to spare. There’s a 99.5% chance that nobody reads them, and you’d give it a 1 in 5 that any given reader is actually a troll.

Aside from the comics you’re left with nothing to do but exercise (by doing shitty Japanese morning radio calisthenics - you’re trusted, but not enough to be around sharp objects save when you’re pruning the helmsman), study, and take long Strider Showers™.

It occurs to you during one of these that it’s been awhile since you tended to your more prurient needs. You’re no sex addict, but it’s one more thing to pass the time, you guess. Chalk it up to soap and your hand on your dick. But you’re not a fan of falling on your ass mid-orgasm (you've done it three times in your life, and as far as you're concerned that's four too many), so you ease yourself to the shower floor before wrapping your hand around your cock again and thumbing at the head to help it harden.

“So, you guys don’t have nooks? That’s some class-A bullshit if I ever saw any. I am so sorry for your entire race.”

You smack your head on the wall and spray yourself in the face. Smooth as a rusty spork. Way to fuckin’ go. You scramble to your feet and rip the shower curtain open, tensed for a fight. There’s nobody there.

“Can a guy get his ablutions on in fucking peace?”

“Grubsauce on a cracker, you need to calm the fuck down. You act like you’ve never had a disembodied voice watching you get off before.” Now that you’re expecting the voice, you can tell that there’s a mechanical undertone to it - probably coming out of a speaker somewhere. You’ve heard that sort of timbre and pacing before. You’ve programmed something eerily similar.

You swallow, and make a conscious effort not to cover yourself with the shower curtain. It's not AR. It can't be him. He knows your shake-weight better than you do.

“Actually, I have. Had a pair of glasses that liked to get his perv on, but apparently they were an “empire safety hazard” or some shit. Don’t feel special.” You glance around the ceiling, looking for a camera.

A staticky laugh filters into the room. “People always look _up_ for cameras. I’ve never understood the urge.”

Cameras. Mechanical voice. Insinuations that creeping is a pervasive, long-standing habit. The facts line up and click into place.

“You never told me your name, you know. Generally polite to introduce yourself before you’re voice-fucking a guy’s alien junk.” You're stress-drawling, god. Taking on those traits you picked up from watching your brother's tapes 50 fucking times a day as a kid. _Y'never. Y'know. Genr'ly._ Even the _junk_ tries to come out as _jurnk_. Keep it under control Dirk, goddamn. You breathe purposefully, slow and deep.

Disembodied laughter again. “Like you introduced yourself before shoving a hand up my anal sphincter?”

Good. He didn't catch it, or he didn't care. Are starships programmed to catch nuances of dialect? You'll have to look into that.

“I tried, and you ignored me." You pause, reviewing mental copies of the helmsman training manuals. They weren't forthcoming on helmsman sensory processing. Probably best not to know the full extent, but you're curious. "Could you even _feel_ that, or are you just pissing in the wind here?”

“Imagine being punched in the ass by a subjugglator.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I’d say I’m sorry, but if this is how you behave, I’m really not.”

“Mmm. Good, because I honestly couldn’t feel a thing.”

Your opinion of him cranks up to match the creep-o-meter. He’s good, being able to bluff you. Well, you’ll bluff right back. You wrap your hand around your dick again and give it a slow pump.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

“Nah.” It almost sounds like he’s talking through a grin, which makes no fucking sense because he’s practically a robot. “No excuses.”

“Alright. No excuse on your part to complain when I jizz all over you, then.”

“Hot.”

“Yeah. Might even step out of the shower, too. Make sure it dries on the floor. That turn you on?”

“As much as I can be, sure. You like that, baby? Jizz on my floors please, I love it when you rub it in.” He's mocking you, the smarmy fuck.

No use. Your boner is so thoroughly puréed that it could star in its own "Will it Blend?" commercial.

It dawns on you that for the first time in your life you're too uncomfortable to one-up a bluff.

“Then, as much as I hate to disappoint, I'm delighted to disappoint. No jizz for Mister McCreepyship. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 caegars.” You shut off the shower and step out, towelling yourself off.

You’re not lying about the creepy thing. You are seriously skeeved at the thought that someone might be watching you 24/7. Any sense of autonomy you have is a lie, and that’s all you thought you had - just a smidgen of it, earned by a cursory glance at this guy to fix a problem that someone else inexplicably couldn’t figure out.

You don’t even bother fixing your hair before getting dressed and _out_ of there.

He says something else as you leave, but you block him out. You’re pretty good at not listening to people. Maybe you’ll get in bed, write some knockoff Hoofbeast Helpers bullshit that you can deface for public consumption. There’s not much of a ‘public’ left, but hey, you have a duty to society.

You put on your glasses to start writing. An affronting shade of yellow-green seizes your screen.

TA: hey, ii’m not done wiith you.  
TT: Funny, I’m pretty done with myself. Don’t you have a ship to run?  
TA: nah. iit practiically run2 iit2elf. a2 well iit 2hould, wiith all the tiime ii 2pent on tho2e algoriithm2.  
TT: So you are literally just a battery.  
TA: wow, way two be blunt, you’re even more of an a22hole than ii’d giive my2elf crediit for dii2coveriing. iit’2 liike ii walked right into an anus and faiiled two notiice untiil ii wa2 covered iin hookworm2.  
TA: wow, that wa2 exceediingly gro22 and ii regret nothiing. ii thiink ii may be a liittle fucked iin the pan. can you fiix that, mii2ter mechaniic? pretty pretty plea2e wiith a 2quiirt of genetiic materiial on top?  
TT: Can’t even fix my own pan, you’re shit out of luck in that department.  
TA: wiill you 2top wiith the 2hiit joke2, they 2topped beiing funny two 2weep2 ago.  
TT: Please carefully consider your last few comments. I know it’s hard, but I’m sure if you put two and two together, you can figure out that you’ve been contributing to this line of thought.  
TA: oh teh noe2, you have hiit upon my 2ecret fetii2h. plea2e ravii2h me mi2ter 2triider, ii’m all atwooooooon.

You stop and consider where he’s going with that comment. A typo? Not likely, with his systems.

Ya got nothin’. As much as you don’t want to admit you don’t know, the urge _to_ know is overpowering.

TT: Could you please pretend I’m two and explain the last comment? Minus the fetish part, I think I’m too wee a babby for that sort of talk just yet.  
TA: me make biig joke, number pun2 abound. there ii2 2tiill hope for you two under2tand when you are older, padawan.  
TT: Seriously, you guys have Star Wars?  
TA: what 2ort of a22-backward ciiviilizatiion wouldn’t iinvent troll 2tar war2, etc.? not one ii’d want two liive iin, that’2 for fuckiing 2ure.  
TA: my favoriite ii2 hanne2 trollo, he ii2 pretty much the be2t antii-hero iin the hii2tory of ciinema. kiinda fucked-up that leuka2 wa2 mackiing on hii2 moiiraiil though.  
TT: Of course you would view it like that, I don’t know why I didn’t expect that.  
TA: ii2 makiing out wiith moiiraiil2 part of human culture? you guy2 are weiird, and that’2 comiing from a centuriie2-old 2tar2hiip that’2 2een 2ome 2eriiou2 2hiippiing 2hiit. that would be capiitaliized by the way, iif you could capiitaliize number2. con2iider tho2e two2 capital a2 fuck, okay?  
TT: Oh Shit, are we Starting trendS now? Better Saddle up the meme mare, Shit’S about to get SeriouS up in here.  
TA: you are extremely annoyiing, ha2 anyone ever told you that?  
TT: Says the guy that managed to remotely wilt my beef bludgeon.  
TA: eww, do you really call iit that?  
TT: Would I lie to you?

There’s no response.

* * *

You wake up sometime around noon to a scratchy voice coming out of your walls.

“Humans don’t fucking call them beef bludgeons, you asshat.”

“We do _now_ ,” you mumble, turning around and pulling a pillow over your head to filter the noise. You _refuse_ to be beaten by his omnipresence. You’ll make yourself into an exhibitionist if that’s what it takes to get off with him around.

Hell yeah, that’s your new side-quest in life. Get off in a ship. Gotta find _something_ to do for stress relief while plotting to overthrow the Empire, after all. Why not tease the imperial starship? (You make a note - great euphemism. It will serve you well in life.)

* * *

You start small - which is to say, not at all. First, you have to develop a plan.

**Step 1:** Imagine yourself in the scenario. You put yourself back in your memory again and again, in your spare time. You’re consumed by it. You pick it apart, trying to discern where the camera might be. It’s down - analysis convinces you that he wasn’t bluffing about the elevation of the camera. It’s hard to check, but you make a discreet sweep every time you take a shower, sometimes leaving your glasses on so you can get a wider scan without arousing suspicion.

You do this, of course, because he’s there, talking to you, every time you shower. He has a more interesting past than you’d expect. You can’t get his name, or the reason he’s lived so long, despite your best attempts at manipulation. It irks you, but given some of the other details he lets slip, you’re not surprised that certain topics are off-limits.

**Step 2:** Practice. Not obviously, because it seems like he’s always watching. You let your hand linger on your dick longer than you normally would while washing. When you’re comfortable with that, you actually start to get hard when touching yourself. It’s more of a success boner than an exhibitionist boner, but it’s a start.

**Step 3:** Practice (Part Two): The Fuckening. When you turn the lights out you slip your hand into your boxers and try getting off as surreptitiously as you can. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. It’s hard to get much friction while being so slow, but you start holding conversations with him while you do it.

Sometimes you shoot the shit about lame movies. Turns out he’s into anime. He thinks Naruto is pretty much the best thing ever. You scoff and tell him that Inuyasha is better. You squabble, then concur that Star Driver is the greatest piece of animation ever created, followed closely by Kill la Kill.

This probably says something about the affinity both of you have with barely-clothed people that fight with ridiculous weapons, and you’re okay with that.

That night is the first night you manage to cum in your pants while talking to him, and you have to fucking let it _dry_ there because there is no way in hell you are going to ‘randomly’ get up and dump your clothes in the garment shaker.

It’s also the first night that you end your conversation with your usual ironic little <3< and realize, to your utter horror, that you _meant_ it. You want to one-up kiss him on his gross, bloody, overfanged face, and it's embarrassing as fuck.

As Jane once said: shucks, buster.

* * *

**Step ~~4~~ 3.5: ** ~~Fast forward and fantasize about having a tentacle up your ass.~~

This was not in your plans, yet here you are, imagining being stretched into the helm in front of him, arms and legs spread with biowires, his bulge drilling into your prostate while your limbs are eaten away. God, you kinky waste of space.

TA: wtf are you doiing?  
TT: Nothing. Why would you imagine I was doing anything? Nah. Not me. Not in your wildest dreams would I be up to anything whatsoever.  
TA: you look liike you’re haviing a bloodpu2her attack. do ii need two call a docterrorii2t?  
TT: Christ, no.  
TA: what diid you ju2t call me?  
TT: It’s a human term of endearment, usually used about someone you want to go to a holy war over.  
TA: …  
TA: okay you were only partiially bull2hiittiing that tiime, way two go me for haviing the pre2ciience two unbury ob2cure human fiile2 when talkiing two you.  
TT: Obfuscation is a premier talent of mine. I’m quite proud of it.  
TA: yet here ii am, beatiing you at your own game.  
TT: Yeah, well, I’m a little occupado.  
TA: ii diidn’t know you were multiiliingual.  
TT: Sure, I’m fluent in English and pop-culture Spanish with a smattering of !Kung. The Gods Must Be Crazy is a classic comedic masterpiece and you should really fuck off and watch it sometime.  
TA: wow, rude.  
TT: And here I thought you were the most observant person on the ship.  
TA: har har.  
TA: 2eriiou2ly though, iit’2 obviiou2 what you’re doiing under there. a few miillenniia of watchiing people whomp theiir wiigliie2 make2 iit pretty ea2y two 2pot.  
TT: I wondered how long that was going to take you to figure out.  
TA: not a2 long a2 iit took two get you two fe22 up two it.  
TT: Should I have done this from the start, then?

You kick-fold your comforter off and lay back on your pillows, spreading your legs and trying to make it look like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You’re already amazingly hard from the stroking you’ve done while talking to him.

TT: Mind helping a guy out?  
TA: 2hiit.  
TA: ii fuckiing knew iit. you’ve got the hot2 for me.

You turn and wiggle your hips, dragging your dick along your sheets.

TT: Nah, this is clearly a sheet kink I’ve got here.  
TA: okay that’2 a liittle weiird even for me.  
TA: 2o you need me two help you along? okay, piicture me fuckiing you iin your non-exii2tent nook, ju2t really goiing at iit liike 2ome 2ort of 2tarved barkchiipperbea2t on a nut.  
TT: I hope you didn’t take that as a request for verbal assistance.  
TA: …  
TA: am ii readiing thii2 wrong or are you 2ayiing you want two fuck a gro22 old 2ack of 2kiin?  
TT: Please don’t ever say “fuck a gross old sack of skin” again. You’re harshin’ my squee. It’s like you doused my squee with hydrochloric acid and rubbed it down with the coarsest sandpaper you could find.  
TT: And no, I’d rather not jeopardize my cushy position as your caretaker. Every other helmsman I’ve met has died on me within a year despite being damn good at what I do. You guys wear out faster than dollar-store batteries. At least I can A) talk with you and B) stay in one place for a while.  
TA: how 2ad for you.  
TA: you 2ure talk a lot for a guy that’2 2uppo2edly gettiing off, you know?  
TT: I’m getting to the good part.  
TT: So I can’t fuck you, right? But there’s still a way we can get jiggy with it.

You’ve looked at the schematics. This should work. You hope it works. If it doesn’t, you’re going to look like an idiot.

Lube first. Can’t forget the essentials. You grab the bottle from your bedside table. It’s biowire hydrating oil, technically, but it’s nonreactive and the best substitute you can find. Mental practice aside, you still feel awkward as hell striding across the room while naked.

There’s a panel on the wall by your Troll Zoolander poster. It's marked GNDN, with tiny handholds built into the sides. You pry it off with a small _oomph_ , and peer in - true to the schematics, it spans from your knee to shoulder height, with a large plastic pipe running through it.

TA: ii thiink ii 2ee where thii2 ii2 goiing.  
TT: Damn straight, you do. Be gentle, senpai. It’s my first time boinking a starship.

You squish yourself on top of the pipe, straddling it and crouching to avoid knocking your head on the top of the passageway. It’s big enough that it spreads your legs out, and it hums slightly, sending vibrations through your ass and dick. Thankfully it’s low enough that you can brace yourself on the floor. Hell. Fucking. Yes.

TT: Is there a camera close enough to watch me?  
TA: con2iideriing nobody’2 2uppo2ed two be iin tho2e, they’re armed two the teeth wiith 2ecuriity. ii can 2ee every paiinful detaiil. ii 2ay paiinful becau2e that thiing’2 2o 2wollen iit look2 liike iit hurt2.  
TT: It does. Now talk dirty to me. Send some power my way. Open the goddamn floodgates and make my dick light up like it’s 12th Perigee's Eve.  
TA: you got iit, bo22.

You squirt a frankly ridiculous amount of oil into your hand and onto the pipe, and twist it up and down your dick as the hum between your legs amps up into a rumble. The bottle of lube falls to the floor, and you _really_ hope you don’t need more because it’s probably lost forever in the abyss that is the walls of the ship.

You lean parallel to the pipe like some sort of starship jockey going for the trophy, and give a test hump. Your dick’s firmly sandwiched between the pipe and your stomach, stimulated by the power surging through the ship. Yippee ki-yay, motherfucker.

TT: Let’s get this show on the road.  
TA: a/2/l?  
TT: 23, male, rubbing my dick on you. You?  
TA: you wouldn’t beliieve me, gender ii2 iirrelevant, haviing diick rubbed on.  
TT: Now that the preliminaries are out of the way, woo me.  
TA: ii put on my robe and wiizard hat.  
TT: Roll for sex appeal.

_TA has rolled a 203 of 222!_

TA: fuck.  
TT: Hey, it’s enough to get me going. How would you touch me if you were out of that helm?  
TA: iit’2 been a whiile. ii’d probably ju2t cum iin my fliight2uiit at the mere thought of a 2exual encounter.  
TT: I’d have to start by peeling that thing off and licking you clean, then.  
TA: nngh. when you were done ii’d 2hove you agaiin2t that panel and hold your hand2 over your head, pre22 hard agaiin2t that fraiil human body, cru2h you iintwo a kii22.

Fuck, that low thrum in the pipe sets your nerves on fire. Pressed against the pipe like this, pulled down by gravity, you can almost imagine it’s him all up against you, rubbing against your dick. You groan and roll your hips, taking the opportunity to tease your nipples with the vibrations. He takes it - rightfully - as encouragement.

TA: you liike that? maybe a liittle ma2ochii2tiic, liike beiing tiied up?  
TT: Maybe.  
TA: can’t tiie your2elf up, ii bet you appreciiate iit.  
TT: You’d be surprised what a guy can do with some time and ingenuity.  
TA: niice. 2tiill, ii bet iit’2 niicer when 2omeone el2e doe2 iit, huh?  
TT: Definitely. Keep going.  
TA: you can probably already tell ii’m the type two 2kiip foreplay. my hand wiill be iin your pant2 iin no tiime.  
TA: ii’ll giive your diick a few 2low pump2...one...two...then ii’ll griip iit harder.  
TT: Better, faster, stronger?  
TA: 2ure. whatever adjectiive2 turn you on. then ii’ll lean down and biite your liittle ear2, ju2t niibble on them gently, tea2iing and runniing my tongue over them.  
TT: God.  
TA: my cliiche databa2e cro22-reference2 thii2 wiith the earliier 'chrii2t' fiigure and tell2 me two 2ay ‘ye2, thii2 ii2 me.’  
TT: Your cliché database is spot-on. Keep going, I’m close.  
TA: a liittle quiick on the draw?  
TT: It’s been awhile since I had external stimulus, excuse me if dirty talk and a well-lubed starship ping my current interests.  
TA: eheh, riight on. maybe ii take off your pant2 next, piin you two the wall wiith p2ii.  
TT: Please.

You hate (and love) that moment when you're forced to give in and beg. AR knew just how to break you (because he _was_ you), and you get the feeling this guy can study you and pick you apart damn near as well. And he's been studying you for months.

The rumble jolts up, suddenly more overstimulating than a Hitachi. Sweat rolls off your back, a byproduct of pipe heat trapped in a small space, and your thighs quiver - clear evidence that you need to develop a new training regimen for successfully fucking spaceships.

Well, practice makes perfect.

TT: I said please, you asshole. Tell me how you'd fuck me.  
TA: wow, rude. but ii gue22...  
TA: ii’d 2liip riight up iin2iide, 2mooth a2 you plea2e.  
TA: 2liitheriing around, driippiing genetiic materiial everywhere.  
TA: lean iin and whii2per iin your ear.  
TA: ooh, mii2ter 2triider, you make me 2o wet. ii bet ii could ju2t pump you full of egg2, one after one, fiill you wiith 2pawn, mark you a2 ~miine~.

Well hot damn, you just discovered a new embarrassing kink to join puppets, horse cocks, and dragons fucking cars.

And that image, even with the sarcastic, overdone tildes, does you in. You brace a hand on the pipe, lift yourself up enough to jack yourself off with the other, picture yourself tied into the helm and packed full of eggs, even more crowding through and pinging your senses while sliding in - being used as a goddamn _incubator_. He’s still typing but you can’t read, can’t breathe, can’t _think_ \- 

You stroke furiously, curl up, bite your lip, nearly cause a dick friction fire, and spray like a municipally-sanctioned firehose graciously funded by taxpayers to put out said devastating dick fire. Whoop-de-doo, applaud and laud the fucking civil engineers, your inferno is successfully quenched.

But the bastards (and let's be real here, you're talking about you) failed to build in an adequate allowance for recoil, and you smack your head on the corridor while attempting to abscond from your own sticky mess. Your glasses jolt off. Being the rigorously-self-educated and well-cultured man you are, you do the logical thing and slide yourself out of the corridor to land on the floor like a cum-stained sock.

You stay there, blankly and blissfully taking in the majesty of the wall, until it begins talking.

“Wow, that really got you, huh?”

“Eleven of ten, would eggpreg again," you croak. Your dickburn is back. Fuck, you shouldn't have dropped that lube. Next time, you are rigging up a goddamn wrist strap for that shit.

The wall cackles. “I’m pretty sure someone would notice if I knocked you up.”

“I’m pretty sure I’d notice too, and it would be pretty goddamn incommodious.” You use an unsteady arm to push yourself up.

The wall snorts this time. Pretty impressive, actually. Kudos to the original engineer.

“We don’t lay eggs, you know. Just like you don’t call dicks beef bludgeons.”

You sigh while blearily hunting around for your fallen glasses. You should have researched reproduction while you were watching all that troll porn. There. Thank every deity that's ever been mentioned in any universe for the fact that you don't need your fingers to hold steady while 'typing' on these things. Also for the fact that the glasses didn't fall into the Vast Pit of Despair. Hallelujah, praise the lord and pass the tax rebate.

TT: Eggs aside, I’m perfectly capable of calling my dick any manner of unintelligible things whether or not you want me to.  
TT: My love leg.  
TT: My butt blaster.  
TT: My yogurt boner.  
TT: My meat katana.  
TT: My tongue depressor.  
TT: Vlad the Impaler.  
TT: The Jabberwock.  
TT: And that’s not even mentioning vargoobas.  
TA: wow. that 2ure ii2 a lot of word2 you ju2t 2aiid. we don’t u2e that many term2 for our wiiggle wang2.  
TT: You don’t really call them wiggle wangs, I have looked these things up by now.  
TA: ala2, ii am caught maroon-handed. my wiiggle wang droop2 iin de2paiir.  
TT: Out of curiosity, can you even shake the snake any more?  
TA: you wiill my2tiically dii2cover the an2wer two that que2tiion next tiime you change my 2uiit.  
TT: I’m not cleaning that up, I hope you know.  
TA: ye2 you wiill.  
TA: giiven our ‘dii2cu22iion’ earliier, ii miight even be able two get you two liick iit off. <3<  
TT: ...  
TT: Fuck you.  
TT: <3<

**Author's Note:**

> For extra fun, re-read this with the knowledge that Condy just came all over her control panel watching these guys go at it.
> 
> If you'd like to reblog this on tumblr, the post is [here](http://solluxisms.tumblr.com/post/147513505390/dirty-talk-and-a-well-lubed-starship-aewin). In general, I reblog Homestuck, ducks, and social commentary.


End file.
